crann darach
by Aneleh
you can hear my ancestors
if you stand beneath
the ancient oak tree,
its wood the same wood
they touched with blistered fingertips
crann darach
on their tongue and the whip
of the rosary on their back
their stone houses still standing in our fields
twisted grammar bleeding onto paper and
your town names are ridiculous
a harbour named after the beauty
of the golden sunset
is now a strangle of english letters,
no attempt at honour, only demolition.
turned upon their own,
gods forlorn and what we
once prayed to in words
long forgotten is
satan.
evil incarnate, the wilderness of the brambles.
we try to feebly relearn our past
force our children into resentment
for what was once theirs
because a twisted short story
about nothing is more important than
the farmer who lives alone in the gaeltacht.
Aneleh (online pen name for her creative and literary work) is an eighteen year old student living in Ireland with a passion for writing, design and art. She is the founding editor of Ogma Magazine and strives to study fashion marketing in Paris. 2am poetry, photography, fashion, sushi and good music are things she holds dear to her heart. Find her at @oritslove on twitter or on the beach, a notebook in hand.